


Exceeds Expectations

by pringlesaremydivision



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, M/M, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pringlesaremydivision/pseuds/pringlesaremydivision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John’s gait after he left his cane and limp behind left another deduction for Sherlock, one he didn’t voice aloud but came back to, often, late at night with the door closed and his hand a fast-moving blur under the covers.</i>
</p><p><i>John Watson was</i> huge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exceeds Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, late-night fic because I defiled a [post](http://pringlesaremydivision.tumblr.com/post/74467297833) of [wearitcounts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/works) and then couldn't get the idea out of my head. Whoops.

John’s gait after he left his cane and limp behind left another deduction for Sherlock, one he didn’t voice aloud but came back to, often, late at night with the door closed and his hand a fast-moving blur under the covers.

John Watson was _huge_.

The way he walked left no doubt about it - such a wide stance on such a small man could only mean two things, and as John never wore trousers prone to chafe, it narrowed the possibilities down to one, just one.

And _oh_ , what a lovely possibility - certainty, really - it was. Sherlock’s mouth watered when he thought about what his quiet, unassuming army doctor must be packing underneath those jeans and jumpers. Was his cock merely thick, or was it long, as well? Cut or uncut? Did he dress to the left or the right? (John’s jeans weren’t too loose to eliminate the chance of observing, but even Sherlock knew it was not exactly on to spend any considerable amount of time staring at one’s flatmate’s crotch; thus, frustratingly, he hadn’t been able to arrive at a definitive answer.)

So he imagined, and he wanked, and he _wanted_ , and he cursed himself for ever telling John he was married to his work.

***

John walked out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, flushed from his hairline down to the vee of chest visible under his dressing gown. Toweling off his hair roughly, he moved towards the kitchen, throwing Sherlock a quick smile as he went.

"Tea?"

Sherlock coughed. Tried to speak. Coughed again.

Fuck it all, John wasn’t wearing pants under his dressing gown. If the way the fabric moved hadn’t made it obvious, the glimpses of skin every time John moved, skin high,  _high_ up his thighs, made it certain. John was standing in the kitchen, making tea like it was any other morning, stark naked but for a very thin, very loose dressing gown.

"I’ll take that as a yes, then." John fixed two mugs of tea - _without pants_ , Sherlock’s mind added automatically - brought one over to Sherlock - _without pants -_ and settled himself into his own chair, again, _without pants._

Sherlock stared into his tea, unblinking, mind blank, until he heard a rustling of fabric from the direction of John’s chair. Chancing a quick glance, he allowed his eyes to travel from John’s feet - _bare, planted far apart on the floor_ \- to his shins - _lightly furred, scar_ _on left leg from a bike accident when he was thirteen -_ to his thighs - _open - open? Oh god._

Before Sherlock even realized what he was doing, he found himself crossing the room and sinking to his knees between John’s open legs, mouth dry and palms sweaty.

"John," he whispered, looking up.

"Everything you expected, then?" John’s smile was equal parts smug and sweet.

"I… I don’t…"

"You’re brilliant at most things, Sherlock, but you’re rubbish at checking someone out, you know that? My god, the number of times I’ve caught you looking at my crotch… I wanted to wait until you made the first move but," he chuckled, "I got tired of waiting."

He sat back and spread his legs further, letting the folds of the dressing gown fall aside, exposing him completely.

"Go ahead," he murmured, and licked his lips. "Whatever you want. It’s all fine. I want you to."

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whispered, reverent. Permission granted, he drank in the sight before him, John Watson with his legs spread and that magnificent prick jutting out like an invitation. Thick, so thick, uncut with a head that was just starting to show above the foreskin. Sherlock’s mouth watered just thinking about getting it in his mouth, wondered briefly if he’d even be able to.

"Mmm. You like my fat cock, Sherlock? I’m not even all the way hard yet, you know." John reached a hand down and grasped Sherlock’s, bringing both to his length. Sherlock let out a low moan at the feeling, the silky skin under his fingertips, rapidly hardening under his ministrations.

"Ah, see that? See what you do to me? God, Sherlock," John gasped, voice rough, "do you think you could take me? Do you think you could get those sweet lips around my cock, let me fuck your throat? You want that, don’t you? Want to choke on my cock?"

  
Sherlock let out a whimper and tumbled forward, pressed hands against John’s thighs, mouthed at the head of John’s cock, wet and salty-bitter with pre-ejaculate. John hissed and threaded his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.

"Yes, good, so good Sherlock, but you can take more, can’t you? Yeah, that’s my good boy, open that gorgeous mouth nice and wide, _fuck_ , just like that.”

Sherlock could barely breathe, mouth stuffed with cock, the head hitting his soft palate, forcing him to fight back his gag reflex. This was so good, so much better than he’d even imagined. He slipped one hand into his pants and gripped his own cock, tugging roughly, desperately.

"Oh, Sherlock, I’m so close, fuck, you’re so good at that. Such a perfect mouth, you were just made for sucking my cock, weren’t you? You’re so beautiful like that, shit, so beautiful all the time, fuck, Sherlock, _Sherlock_ ,” and then John arched up, thighs taut, and pulsed and pulsed and _pulsed_ down Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock tumbled over the edge with him, felt the wetness coating his fingers.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, tentatively, John cleared his throat.

"I didn’t. I mean. You wanted - " he stuttered.

Sherlock smiled, laying his head on John’s thigh and looking up at him, sleepy and satiated.

"I wanted. Very much."

And John smiled.


End file.
